


Sense Memory

by Meowser_Clancy



Series: Jimel Moments [10]
Category: Ghost Whisperer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowser_Clancy/pseuds/Meowser_Clancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different kind of raincheck for 4x14: Slow Burn. Written because it's Jennifer Love Hewitt's 37th birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostwhispererfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwhispererfangirl/gifts).



Sense Memory.

A different kind of raincheck. Tag to 4x14: Slow Burn.

* * *

Melinda's lips pressed to his, and Sam felt something...new awaken.

His lips remembered this. He had a keen sense that this had happened before. It had to have happened before.

And yet. It hadn't. There was no way. He refused to believe that Melinda had cheated on her husband. She wasn't that kind of woman.

ANd oh god. His hands were moving. They were moving like he'd done this before a million times, like only his brain doubted, in this moment, what the right move was.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, and they were shaking from the terror.

His heart beat in his throat. He moved ever closer to her, feeling the heat of her body.

No. No, he couldn't do this. Melinda wasn't ready.

She so obviously couldn't be...ready...to start dating again, so soon after her husband's death.

Jim.

Jim's death.

Sam felt his fingers itching. He felt his body stir to life. He felt feelings he hadn't been able to bring to life for a long, long time now...they were returning.

His hands swept around to her bare back above her strapless dress.

Oh, god. She was as soft as she looked.

She whimpered slightly, like she was about to pull away.

But something inside of him took over then. His mind was being overruled by something much stronger...sense memory.

He took control of the kiss, somehow knowing exactly how and where to probe with his tongue to get Melinda to open up to him.

And she was whimpering again, but now her hands were curling around his neck; her fingernails were biting into him.

She was moving towards him in a restless, slinking motion.

His hands came around, caressing the skin above her dress in the front now. He knew...somehow he knew how her breasts would feel. And it terrified him.

His hands moved again, clasping her at the waist; tight, tighter, moving her against his raging erection.

Oh god. Melinda.

She was...she was exactly how he knew she'd be.

But he didn't know how he knew.

Her hair was done in loose waves. He moved his hands up to her neck, pulling the hair up and aside. His lips fell away from her lips; she tilted her head and he kissed the skin of her neck, nipped at it, sucked on it.

He came to the ribbon of her necklace and he, dropping her hair, untied it.

It felt like a ceremony. He felt like he was taking something away from her as he pulled the ribbon from her neck. It was just a piece of jewelry. He'd never seen her wear it before and he doubted it meant something to her.

But it somehow felt significant.

The ribbon, so light, seemed to weigh in his hands. He dropped it; it fluttered to the ground at their feet.

She was staring at him, a little bit dazed. He'd pulled back to look at the ribbon and now he just wasn't sure again. His mind was taking over, shouting no, saying that he needed to wait, Melinda should wait.

But his heart...his hands...his legs...they were moving to another's memories, another's orders, someone else's directions.

He was sliding his arms around her in a move you'd only find in a 1940s war movie: he was swinging her around and dipping her over one arm and her neck was so there, so exposed.

The skin above her neckline called to him. He had a feeling that the low cut dress...it couldn't hold out anymore.

It shouldn't.

Gently, slowly, as his lips nipped at her lips; as his tongue slid inside her mouth in a primal dance he didn't know he knew but performed expertly, his hands moved to the top of her bodice. It was...so low cut.

Surely...surely...

His breath was coming in such hard pants he was surprised he was still breathing at all.

His hands were itching to move and they were completely ignoring the order in his mind to slow down.

His heart was singing a different tune; his muscles were moving on a different order.

He tugged.

The dress came down a bit.

He dipped his hands inside, he felt, more than heard, Melinda's gasp.

Her breasts slid into his hands and it hurt. Oh god, it hurt to feel how perfect they were.

How the weight felt so good, so right...so familiar.

He broke the kiss, knowing what he wanted, knowing what was next in this dance, this performance.

His mind briefly broke in and he dazedly met Melinda's gaze.

She stared back at him. His thumb scraped over her nipple; they were so hard, so erect. They were like flowers blooming.

He lowered his gaze to see, and these were breasts he'd held before. This wasn't the first time. It couldn't be the first time because he knew them.

His mouth lowered, so slowly.

Her breath was bringing her chest up, and down, and up, in rapid succession. It rose to a veritable crescendo as his mouth lowered. He could hear his heart beating in his ears.

He could feel her heart as his mouth got ever closer to his prize: a rosy nipple that was begging to be kissed.

He couldn't breathe.

His lips landed over her nipple.

Melinda let out such a moan that he almost came, right then and there. His blood was pounding in his veins, he wouldn't have been able to stop for the world.

His tongue swiped around her nipple, tasting her. She was gripping his hair, the back of his neck, anything to keep herself steady, standing.

His erection was painful, pounding. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way (even beyond the amnesia part of it) and yet he still had the keen sense that this had all happened before.

Her hips were swaying, closer, and closer. He could feel her dress slipping between his legs as she fell against him, pressing herself to his poundimg member.

His heart beat in double time. Her breasts were suddenly too constricted.

His hands swept around to the back, locating her zipper in an instant.

As it slid down, he had an ever increasing feeling of familiarity. He had a flash of sight: of what the view from the back would be right now.

And it was real, it was memory, of Melinda's bare back slowly coming into sight, even as his face was so buried in her breasts that he couldn't see anything.

So what was he remembering? How did he know how she liked to be touched? How did he know how painful her nipples sometimes got if he didn't touch them soon enough? How did he know that her next move would be a breathy sigh as her dress slid down her hips? How could he anticipate her eagerly stepping out of it, moving against him?

His legs were propelling, his arms were too strong for his own good as he swept her into his arms and spread her out on the bed beneath him.

She was staring at him, huge eyes just blinking as he stripped his clothes off. As his boxers slid down his hips to reveal his erection. She made a sound, she moved toward him, and she was taking him in her hands.

Sam wasn't a saint. He had to admit that, since his accident, there had been...lonely times when he'd taken matters into his own hands, literally.

But this...

This was like...

Better than anything he could imagine.

Yet he remembered, vividly, what he'd been thinking about when touching himself. What things had driven him forward. Because they weren't solid things; it wasn't Farrah Fawcett in a bikini or anything like that.

It was more like emotions, gestures, things he couldn't pinpoint. Vague wists of touches that he repeated as best he could, and they brought him to a pounding climax.

Melinda...she was doing those moves now. She was moving her hands up and down, like she knew exactly what she was doing. There was no hesitancy that you'd expect in a first time encounter. She never checked with him to see what he wanted.

She didn't have to.

He cried out as she made him come, in a sticky mess.

He felt intense pleasure as the moment ended, and saw Melinda still sitting there, naked but for a pair of panties.

"I didn't take care of you," he said.

"I took over," she said simply.

"No, let me do this," he said and before she could say anything, before his brain could react, his muscles were again moving on their own.

He was peeling her panties off, his fingers were sliding inside and he knew...he knew this heat.

He knew the wiggle she made as she got closer. He anticipated each gasp and moan of pleasure as she got closer.

And when she came, when she cried out his name...

"Jim," she moaned.

"Melinda," he returned.

He didn't realize that she'd called him by the wrong name. It didn't even register.

As they lay there, in a sweaty, sticky mess, Sam pulled her against him, cradling her, spooning.

"That was some raincheck," he whispered.

"Yeah," she managed to say in return.

There was an odd...familiarity again as they moved against each other, into perfect spots. It was comfortable, natural. He was breathing into her hair, and the smell of orange blossoms pierced his nostrils, seeped into his brain, bringing to mind memories...senses...of times like this, just like this, that had happened before.

Then he panicked.

His brain took over again, forcibly taking the reins.

He sat up abruptly, pulled on his clothes.

He looked down at her, her breasts taking his main interest. She slowly pushed herself to a seated position, uncomfortably looking for something to put on. The quilt wasn't even down. They'd done the deed on a made bed.

Her clothes were still on the floor, they were too far for her to reach without making a fool or a whore out of herself.

Sam wished she didn't have to feel like that but he didn't know what else to do at this point. Had he been somewhat of a ladies man? Certain people, like his sister, seemed to think that.

But he didn't...he didn't know what to do about this. He'd bet millions of dollars that he'd never before had an encounter as good as this one had been and yet...it had happened a thousand times before, a thousand nights.

He finally handed her one of his plaid shirts and she looked away as she slid it on. It fell to her thighs as she stood up and slowly buttoned his shirt.

"I...I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I pushed you."

"No, it was all me," he protested. "I've been told by my sister that I was quite a ladies man at times in my life. I guess my memories just took over when you...kissed me."

She couldn't even look at him. "It wasn't just that," she said, her voice raw and her tone one of begging, pleading. "Surely there was something else to it."

"Yeah, there was something else," he managed to say, staring at her. "There was this other sense...I knew exactly what to do, Mel."

Her eyes widened.

"Mel?" She whispered.

"Yeah," he returned, and then ducked his head. "Sorry. That was what your husband called you...right?"

"Yeah, him and a few close friends," Melinda managed. "Not that you can't call me Mel too. I...please do."

"Aren't we moving too fast?" Sam finally said, voicing his concerns. "I mean, my brain says one thing and it's like my whole entire body just contradicts it, just throws it out the window. It doesn't care what my brain says. It moves of its own accord. I...I've worked out since the accident. My body remembers the moves...the motions of a hard workout. I know how to do a clean and jerk. I can perform a perfect pushup or manage a free throw in basketball without even blinking an eye. It was like that, Mel...inda. It was like..."

"Sense memory," she whispered. "That's what it's called."

"Then tell me this," he managed to say. "Mel...inda."

"What?" She asked, moving restlessly.

"Where are those memories from?" He asked. "How does my body know how to do that?"

"It's your psyche, not your body, it's your...soul," she said, gesticulating wildly. "Please believe me, Sam. I did not cheat on my husband. Ever. But there are ways...there are other explanations, I don't know."

There were tears in her eyes.

He knew what to do for those too.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What?" She asked.

"I made you cry," he said, moving behind her and stripping the stained quilt off of the bed.

"What are you doing?" She asked, pressing a hand to her mouth as if trying to suppress the sobs.

"I'm making my bed so we can sleep in it," he said. "We can talk about this in the morning."

"We could...go up to my room, it's a better bed," she whispered.

He wanted to say that it would be too weird. God, it was her marriage bed. He couldn't sleep in a dead man's bed.

* * *

But it doesn't feel like that at all. It feels right.

He picks her up, swings her into his arms in a princess carry. Her legs are soft, silky. Her thighs drape on his arms in a way that makes his mind begin to stir with possibilities again.

He carries her from the garage to the back door; it's locked so they have to go back and he squats down so that she can grab her keys from the bureau.

They don't speak; they don't say a word. They're both way too scared of breaking the spell that's come over them.

She unlocks the door and he carries her inside; up the stairs.

They're nearing the bedroom.

Sense memory takes over again.

He's walking faster.

They've made it over the threshold. He feels everything come crashing into him and he's laying her out on the bed.

He can't wait to get this man's shirt off of her.

The thought puzzles him...it's his shirt, after all...

But it goes away as he again discovers her skin, her scent, her motions and responses.

He's felt it a thousand times before, this he's now completely sure of. It's the only possible solution. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Like usual since his accident, he has no idea what that quote is from.

But no matter what the truth of it is...no matter how many times he's thrusted against her, spilled into her...every time feels like the first.


End file.
